Page 13 of Broken Warrior
With another deep breath, I pull open the door then smooth out my flannel shirt, tighten the knot at my bellybutton and lift my head as high as I can while I walk in four inch heels down the narrow hallway.
I had no idea how to dress for an interview but I wanted to come across as sexy and confident while still looking like an average twenty-five-year old woman.
Natural and neutral makeup with a little emphasis on my best features, my lips in a fierce red.
Hair down, lightly blow dried with a slouchy gray beanie on my head.
Red and black flannel shirt over a white tank top, the shirt unbuttoned and tied at my navel.
Dark wash tight jeans with some distressing and manufactured wear and tear.
Black pointed stilettos that put me closer to five-foot-eleven.
It’s close to how I’ve been dressing since being in Colorado, but with a hint of sex appeal so I don’t come across as desperate or slutty, just a faux confidence I don’t feel and a more inviting appearance in order to hopefully make me easy to talk to.
Fingers crossed, anyway.
I really need this.
And the club is nice.
It’s clean and well-maintained with a Victorian burlesque vibe. Deep maroons and glittering golds, brass fixtures, crystal teardrop chandeliers, and cream colored accents. The stage and runway are along the wall opposite from me framed in heavy velvet curtains, a pole in center of the stage as well as the end of the catwalk. Two rows of turn of the century theater style seats surround it, another few rows of intimate tables behind them. There are a few dancer cages made to look like 1800’s elevators scattered around the main floor, and fainting couches along the right and left walls with thick tapestries acting as privacy partitions for lap dances.
I’ve danced at a few clubs over the years but never have I been in one like this.
I really like it.
I could definitely work here.
“Ms. Covington?”
My gaze swings to my right, a long saloon style bar with a big vintage cash register on either end, ornate brass mirrors and lots of top shelf liquor. A pretty girl with periwinkle hair and bright green eyes gives me a smile as she walks toward me.
“Ms. Rollins?”
She nods and holds out her hand. “Ember.”
“Tate,” I say as I take it.
“Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks. I’m driving.”
Ember’s smile grows, a very curious but calm air about her. “A water then?”
“Sure.” I squirm on my stool and fidget with the ends of my hair. I’m so nervous that a drink would probably help, but considering I have to leave here and pick up James, I’m not about to indulge in anything before he gets in the car.
She sets down a fancy looking glass, grabs a pitcher of cucumber water, then pours it in front of me.
I appreciate that. A lot.
“So you’re a dancer?” Ember hands me a straw then wipes down the counter.
I nod. “Not classically trained or anything, but I’ve worked in gentlemen’s clubs before.”
“Multiple?” She lifts a thin dark brow.
She’s really pretty. Tan, curvy, probably about my height, maybe a smidge taller. Her right arm is covered in colorful tattoos: a sleeve of gorgeous flowers and vines. There are other tiny ones that dot her hands, her left arm, and the side of her neck. Big gauges in her earlobes, a few other painful looking earrings, a hoop in her nose, and diamond studs in the dimples of her cheeks. A section of her hair is shaved on the left side, Ember’s periwinkle locks styled in an edgy, messy fun shoulder length cut with lots of layers. She’s wearing a skin tight T with The Dollhouse logo on the front, a rainbow miniskirt over black tights and combat boots. If she wasn’t smiling or giving off a warm vibe, Ember would probably scare the shit out of me.
